


either you're mine or you're not

by goblindaughter



Series: life and times [1]
Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female-Centric, LGBTQ Female Character, Rule 63, Unhealthy Relationships, cisgirl!Numair, cisgirl!Ozorne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblindaughter/pseuds/goblindaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Numaire was Numaire, she was Arra, closest companion of Her Imperial Majesty Ozorne. This is the story of how things fell apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	either you're mine or you're not

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, folks, heed the tags--Ozorne is a terrible person and completely unable to have a healthy relationship. I didn't know what warning to use for that, which is why I haven't checked one, but be careful reading. Also, there's brief mention of torture.
> 
> Anyway, this entire fic is basically one person's fault. You know who you are. 
> 
> My headcanon Arra/Numaire is Amara Karan. My headcanon Ozorne is Gina Torres. (In case you were wondering, my headcanon Kaddara, aka Lady Not Appearing In This Fic, is Estella Daniels.)
> 
> As a final note: this is unbeta'd, so there may be edits in the future.

Ozorne and Arra are, for the moment, free. Exams have finished, and so there are two glorious months ahead of them with no essays to write, no books to study, no teachers to please--not that it has ever been hard for either of them to do any of those things, but the pace of the imperial academy is still exhausting. Even for a princess and her chosen companion.

So they lounge on a palace balcony--a privilege Arra has long since grown used to--enjoying the evening air, protected from biting insects by well-set spells. It's too warm to share a divan, as they sometimes do, so the pair of them are relegated to separate chairs. "When I am empress," Ozorne says, sipping her flavored ice, "You'll be head of my mages."

"You're the third child," Arra says, "How do you know it's a _when_?"

She laughs. "I know." It's a perfectly lovely laugh. There is no bitterness, no edge. She sounds genuinely amused. But with the rash of mysterious deaths among the young royals, Arra has to wonder. It would be awfully convenient if all of Ozorne's siblings died and left her the sole true heir to the throne, someone who couldn't be killed without starting a civil war...

No. Arra won't think about that now.

Besides, it isn't as if Ozorne's siblings are by any means innocent.

She leans over and kisses Ozorne, just because she can and Ozorne is beautiful. Ozorne cups the back of her neck and leans up into her. “Too hot for this,” she murmurs, pulling back. Arra smiles and kisses her again.

“We could go inside.”

“But then I would have to get up, dear Arra.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to live with it.” Ozorne laughs again, and pulls Arra into her lap.

 

Three weeks later, they’re given their exam results. They’ve both scored in the highest percentile, and Ozorne is so pleased with herself that she buys three new birds for the aviary and half a dozen new books for Arra. When Arra tries to get something for her, she refuses. “It’s my treat,” she says. “Who’s the future empress here?”

 

The pair of them make red robe at the same time. When the news that they’ve done it comes in, Arra is so happy she thinks she might pass out a bit, and Ozorne hugs her so hard it seems her ribs creak.

“The youngest red robes the world has ever seen,” she says, “What an achievement, Arra!”

(At a year younger than Ozorne, Arra is the youngest, but right now, it doesn’t matter.)

 

\--

Ozorne’s coronation is quite the affair. She was named heir a year after their graduation--more mysterious deaths left her the only one eligible for the crown, and her mother expires in her sleep quite peacefully, in the way one would expect of an old woman. The moon-to-moon mourning period is properly observed, and then all that is put aside for the pomp and circumstance due the new empress.

She looks so terribly beautiful, under all that gold, and she pays Arra hardly any attention the whole night. Varice more than makes up for it, but much as she likes Varice, and much as she appreciates the beautiful thing she’s made, Arra’s still a little stung. Just because Ozorne is Empress now doesn’t mean she doesn’t have time for her oldest friend anymore. There aren’t _that_ many foreign dignitaries and important nobles about.

And she is the youngest mage to make the red robe, after all. That counts for something, doesn’t it?

Varice can tell--Varice makes telling these things into an art--and tries to cheer her up by dragging the Gallen ambassador over. “Arra can do these wonderful tricks,” she says, “They look like magic, but they aren’t. I don’t know how she manages it. Come on, Arra, show him.”

Obligingly, she flips a coin up and down her knuckles, makes it vanish up one sleeve and come down the other, and pulls it from Varice’s ear. Simple enough, but it does make her feel a bit better, and the ambassador is suitably charmed by it.

The banquet winds down. People begin to leave, off to their beds or someone else’s. Varice leaves with a pretty young man, leaving Arra alone. There’s no reason not to retire, and so she does. If Ozorne wants to see her, she can come looking.

Halfway down the corridor, the air beside her shimmers, and Ozorne appears. Arra stops abruptly and stares at her.

“What?” she says, “You thought now that I’ve the crown, I would stop doing this?”

“I thought you would be enjoying your imperialness a little longer.” There’s a sharp edge to her voice that Arra regrets as soon as she hears it. Ozorne stops walking, grabs her wrist and stops her too.

“Jealous?”  
  
“Feeling neglected.”

“Well, I have to keep them guessing about who I intend to name as my head mage. Everyone thought it would be you--I had to throw them off, didn’t I? Oh, Arra, don’t sulk. _You_ know it’s you.” Ozorne smiles at her, one of those smiles that always makes her feel like she’s the only person Ozorne could ever pay attention to. “Come back to my rooms with me. Don’t you want to see the imperial suite?”

It’s impossible to stay put out in the face of that smile. It's even more so when Ozorne takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckle.

“I do,” Arra says.

Truth be told, she does not see very much of the suite at all, because they are _much_ too busy for a tour.

\--

The weeks go by, and Ozorne does not name a head mage. It’s reasonable, Arra tells herself. She’s replacing her entire cabinet, revitalizing the army, maneuvering her way through marriage proposals--a new head mage is not a particularly pressing matter. But she seems to have very, very little time for Arra at all.

No matter. Arra has her books and her studies, after all. Lindhall has some very interesting new texts, and while Ozorne might have very little time for her, whenever a request is made for the library she grants it.  Weeks turn into months, months turn into a year. She works and works, eagerly drinking up all the new spells and forms that she can.

One day, Lindhall Reed says to her, “You should take the test, Arra.”

“Pardon?”

“For the black robe. You should try for it.”

She made red robe at eighteen. Black robe, now, that’s different--but what can it hurt? Just her pride. And she can always try again, anyway. Besides, if Lindhall is suggesting it, that means he thinks she has at least a chance.

“Perhaps I should," she says, "But I'm going to need several books we haven't got first."

 

It’s the hardest thing she’s ever done, and she sleeps for three days straight after coming out of it.

That doesn’t matter, not when she has the black robe to wear. She’s giddy with pride in her own strength, so much so that she forgets what Ozorne is like when she’s second in something.

“You’ve made black robe?” Ozorne says flatly. “Impressive.”

“That’s all?”

“What more do you want?

"I thought," says Arra, "That you would be happy for me."

"Well. We got our red robes at the same time, didn’t we? I ought to have the black robe too.”

"That’s not how it works,” Arra says. “I worked for it, you didn’t.”

"Oh, please,” Ozorne says derisively, “You were just some farmer’s brat before I decided to raise you up. Reed would never even have _considered_ you if I hadn’t decided you were worth befriending first.”

“Don’t even!” Arra snaps. “Don’t even try to say that. They would have noticed me anyway. I’m stronger than you and you _know_ it.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Silence descends on the room, heavy and choking. Everything seems to freeze for a moment. Then Ozorne turns on her heel and stalks out. She does not slam the door. Empresses don’t.

 

They don’t speak to each other for days. That feels more normal now--but there was the argument, and Arra knows some fixing has to be done. After a week of waiting, she goes looking for Ozorne. She finds her in the aviary, sitting at the foot of the great artificial tree, staring up into its branches.

“Ozorne,” Arra says.

Ozorne keeps her gaze turned resolutely upward. It’s as if Arra doesn’t exist to her.

“Please,” she says, “I want this fight to be over.” Again, there is no response. “Ozorne, I am _sorry_.” The apology tastes false in her mouth--she’s done nothing she needs to be sorry for. Only been better at magic than the Empress Mage. But it at least, gets Ozorne to look at her. Her lips tighten a little bit, but her face softens. Then:

“So do I.” She pats the ground next to her. “Come. Sit with me.” Arra settles down beside her. Ozorne won’t say that she’s sorry. She never does. It’s unbecoming of an empress, she once said. This is as close as she’ll get. Instead, Ozorne points up.

“Look, there’s a nest.” Arra cranes her neck to see. It’s hard, in the dark, but she can just make the pale shape of a bird. Green fire blooms at the edges of her eyes, and suddenly it’s much clearer. It’s one of the new, white-blue crested birds from the very far south, brought in just months ago. “It’s good that they’re breeding,” Ozorne goes on, “I wasn’t sure if they would.” She rests her head on Arra’s shoulder.

Just like that, things are alright again.

\--

For a while, anyway. Ozorne is busy with matters of state--replacing ministers, reorganizing the army, expanding the navy, reviewing the various political situations--and she does not name a head mage. It’s reasonable, quite so. There is no reason for Arra to feel slighted. Ozorne promised her the position when they were students. It wasn’t binding, and it hasn’t been broken, technically speaking.

Yet it stings. Thank the gods she has her work, and Lindhall and Varice.

Varice is wonderful. Incredibly distracting--once, she finds Arra in the library, and they spend three hours discussing their respective homelands and no time whatsoever on spellwork--but wonderful. Arra sees Ozorne less and less, and Varice more and more, until one day she realizes she hasn’t seen Ozorne in an unofficial capacity in more than a month.

It’s not a pleasant realization.

At breakfast, Varice asks, “Arra, are you alright?” and lays a hand on her arm.

Arra forces a smile. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“If you need anything,” Varice says, “Anything at all--”

“Thank you.” It’s a little easier to smile, now that Varice has said that. “How are your studies?” That’s so blatant and unsubtle it almost grates, but Varice recognizes it for the desperate grasp for absolutely anything else to speak about that it is, and runs with it. For cookery, her lessons are fascinatingly in-depth.

“I could show you the kitchens some time,” Varice offers.

Why shouldn’t she go? It will be interesting.

“I’d like that.” Arra smiles, and Varice smiles back.

She has such a nice smile.

 

Varice shows her the kitchens, and the stores, and the markets--and it gets a bit dull after a while, but Varice is interested in it, and that’s enough. She has such skill, too. Arra sees her assemble spun-sugar panels in minutes, her Gift barely sparking. The control needed for that is incredibly fine. It could be extended to great workings, to do incredible, wondrous things. She tells Varice as much, and Varice shrugs.

“I don’t want to do great workings,” she says, “I want to do _this_.”

“You could do more, though,” Arra says.

“But this is more than enough for me,” Varice tells her. “I’m good at it, I like it. And it’s fun. Besides, pretty things make people happy.”

But she has so much _potential_. Arra opens her mouth to say so, and Varice raises a hand. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Varice says, “Please?

“Alright,” Arra says. They turn the conversation to other things, and it goes on for so long that they miss dinner. Varice has food brought up to her room, and they eat together and stay up far too later.

The next night, they take dinner in her rooms again--it’s better for talking than the massive banquet hall. Of course, Varice can’t do it every night, and Arra doesn’t expect her to. They both have to eat dinner with the court sometimes, after all. Varice more so, since she often designs dinner. (And she could be doing so much more with the skill she brings to the dinner table--but they’ve already had that argument several times, and it never goes anywhere.)

One night, Varice kisses her.

It wasn’t like Arra never wondered what it would be like, because she’s attentive and pretty and knows all seven constructive strictures like the back of her hand and only barbarians don’t like that in a woman--but there was Ozorne. Ozorne, who’s been paying her nearly no attention, and Varice is the one kissing her right now, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps she doesn’t have to be loyal in that way, and perhaps she can kiss Varice back--which is excellent, because that is exactly what she’s doing.

It’s so _easy_. Easy to take her arm in the halls, easy to steal a kiss while they’re studying, easy to take Varice dancing on her name-day. Like it was when she and Ozorne were students, except without the distant threat of an alliance marriage. She doesn’t even worry about Ozorne, because if Ozorne cared, she would have done something by now.

Then, at the beginning of spring, Ozorne invites her to eat breakfast together in her solar.

Arra is--not nervous, exactly. But she’s not exactly pleased, either. It’s been so long since they saw each other without dozens of other mages and statesmen and bored noble fops around that she’s not sure what it’ll be like. And if, perhaps, she is angry about Varice after all.

When she arrives, Ozorne smiles and kisses her on the cheek and says how much she’s missed her. It goes...it goes well. Things are almost like they were before.

At least until Ozorne asks, out of the blue, “Is she better than me?” Arra starts.

“Pardon?”

“Your Varice. Is she better than me?” Her tone of voice is innocent, as if she were talking about the weather, but Arra knows better. Give the wrong answer now, and Ozorne will turn on her.

When did it become like this, her walking on eggshells? Or was it _always_ so, and she was simply so used to it that she didn't notice until she started seeing Varice?

"I hardly think you're comparable," Arra says. It works, thank the gods--a small, smug smile crosses Ozorne's lips, and she knows that what Ozorne heard is not quite what came out of her mouth. Perhaps Ozorne is even wilfully misinterpreting it because she wants to be close again. (Perhaps that's giving the Empress too much credit.)

"Well," Ozorne says, "I didn't ask you here to talk about your dalliances." She claps her hands, and one of the mutes comes forward and clears their plates away. "I will name you as my head mage tomorrow."

It should be a moment of joy. Arra should be laughing and thanking her and reaching across the table to hug her. But Ozorne isn't finished yet. She can tell. There's a _but_ coming, and with the way the Empress has been lately, Arra isn't sure she'll like it.

"But there's a contract you have to sign first." And there it is. "It's only a formality, you understand," Ozorne goes on, "My ministers would throw a fit if I gave you special treatment. They're such jealous little people. I promise you, the bindings will be no trouble at it." She motions to a mute. "Bring me Mistress Draper's contract." The slave bows deeply and fetches a piece of paper. Even from a yard away, Arra can feel the power streaming off it. Ozorne delicately takes the paper, handling it as a smith might handle tongs containing a hot coal, and sets it down. "Be careful looking," she says, "I've been as subtle as possible with the workings, but it will be unstable until you sign it."

Slowly, Arra introduces a tendril of her Gift to the magic hanging heavy on the parchment. The two sniff about each other for a moment, and then she's allowed in. It's fiendishly complicated, elegantly structured--all Ozorne's work.

What she sees makes her feel cold.

Surely, surely her friend cannot have intended--this? Ozorne overlooks things, sometimes. Ozorne can get so fixated on one end of a project that she wouldn't notice the other exploding. It must be a mistake.

All of that sounds like lies.

"Ozorne," Arra says, pulling back, "You do know--some of the stipulations--they'll allow you to draw on my power without my knowledge."

"Yes," Ozorne says matter-of-factly. Arra's stomach twists. "I don't want to be interrupting you every time I need a little bit extra, do I? You get so wrapped up in your books, I thought it would be easier for everyone if you didn't need to know I was doing it." The blood has all rushed from her face, and she can't seem to come up with the words for how _wrong_ this feels. Her power is hers and hers alone, as much a part of her as her arms--to have someone else command it whenever they like would be unthinkably awful. "Oh, come now. It isn't as though you _like_ having so much power you can't light a candle!" Ozorne reaches across the table and takes her hand. "Just a drop of your blood mixed with mind and your signature in ink. That's all it will take." The slave passes her a small, ornate dagger, and she presses the edge to Arra's palm.

" _No_!" Arra chokes out. She yanks her hand back, slicing herself on the blade. The contract flares emerald and starts to smoke. Ozorne stares at her, astonished. She realizes: this is the first time she has outright refused Ozorne anything.

"I beg your pardon?" Ozorne says softly.

"I said no." Arra stands, pushing her chair back so hard it topples over. "I will not sign that! Are you _mad_ , Ozorne?"

Ozorne rises, her face like thunder. "How _dare_ you!" she snarls. "You _always_ complain about how hard having that much power makes things! Why are you clinging to it now? Because you don't _trust_ me?"

"No,I don't, _Your Imperial Majesty_ ," Arra snaps back.

Both of them fall silent. The words are true--Arra regretted them as soon as she said them, but they're true. She doesn't trust Ozorne. She hasn't for gods know how long. She loves her still, but she doesn't _trust_ her.

Ozorne slaps her.

Or tries. Reflexively, Arra grabs her wrist and shoves her back, heedless of dangerous it is. Ozorne stumbles and then punches forward with her Gift. Green fire slams Arra to the floor, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. They've _never_ used their magic on each other. _Never_. This last betrayal hurts as much as her bruises.

"Guards!" They appear as if they've popped out of the wall. Maybe they have. It’s hard to tell. "Arrest this woman," Ozorne tells them, hatred glittering in her eyes, "She has laid hands upon our person and committed high treason."

There is no point in fighting them. Arra is too stunned, anyway.

  
The cell is cold and featureless. There's a heavy feeling in the air, thick and oppressive. Damping spells. Her Gift is useless. They searched her, took everything but her shift. She has nothing. There's no way out.

Arra tries not to cry and fails. When she's finished, she dozes off with her head in her arms. She wakes when the door opens for the guards to feed her--hardtack, tough meat, lukewarm water. It's better than nothing. She can hardly keep it down.

They take the tray and leave. The door slots back into place. Arra sleeps again.

Some time later--she can't tell how long it's been--Ozorne comes to see her.

"Look at me," she orders. Arra doesn't look. Ozorne sighs. "Very well, then. Have you had enough of this? Sign and all's forgiven."

"No."

For a moment, there's only silence. "I suppose it was foolish," Ozorne says, "To come the first day. I'll visit again." And then she's gone.

Days pass, possibly weeks. She does come again, and Arra refuses her again, and more weeks pass. No matter how hard she tries, she can't find a way out. It's hopeless.

Then Ozorne changes her tactics.

She visits as she always does, but this time, she kneels in front of Arra, without a care for what the dust might do to her finery. What there is of it--her only jewelry is the spelled things she never removes, and her clothing is fine linen, not silk. Arra can tell she has a new plan as soon as she sees her.

"Arra," she says, "I've changed my terms."

She's what?

Arra raises her head to stare. "What do you want?" Ozorne asks. "You may have anything. I'll make you my consort, give you any lands you'd like--I don't need those breeding stallion princes, Fazia can have one. Just sign. What do you say?"

"No." She doesn't understand. There is _nothing_ she can give Arra that will be enough for her to give herself away like that.

Ozorne reaches out to take her hand. It's been so long since anyone touched her that Arra doesn't resist--and she's afraid of what will happen if she does. "Reconsider," Ozorne says. " _Please._ "

That cost her something to say.

Is this the last time she's going to try? After this, will she just give up and leave Arra here to rot? It's not a pleasant thought, but it's better than bowing to Ozorne.

Once she'd have been happy too, but once Ozorne would never have asked so much of her.

Ozorne strokes her fingers gently. "You have such beautiful hands, my Arra," she said quietly. "It will be a crying shame."

Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

This _is_ the last time Ozorne will try. The last time Ozorne will try to _bribe_ her. She must have been holding out, hoping, in her own way, that Arra would come around. And now that it's clear that she won't...

She'll have the imperial torturers break her. They start with the fingers. It's the Carthaki method. Destroy the extremities, work in towards the heart. Either Arra will give in and sign, or she'll die. Maybe she ought to attack Ozorne now, try and get the guards to kill her quickly.

Ozorne shifts slightly, and one of her magiced earrings brushes against Arra’s wrist, sending a shock up her arm. The power isn’t dampened by the cell--that’s one of the weaknesses of the spell, enchanted objects can’t be affected by it, and neither can spells that were already running.

She leans forward. “Don’t do this.” She hates to beg, but it’s the only thing Ozorne will believe. “Please. I’m your friend.”

“What’s a friend if she’s not loyal?”

She has it. Arra unclasps the anklet--one of five slim electrum ones, Ozorne won’t notice it’s missing for a while. Hopefully. She slips it up her sleeve and pulls back. Ozorne lets her hand go. “I will see you in the morning,” she says. “Say the word and nothing more has to happen to you.”

Arra looks away. Ozorne rises and leaves her. (It may be her imagination, but the empress’s shoulder seem to slump for a moment. Only a moment, and then her posture is rigidly perfect again.) Arra makes herself wait, and keep waiting, until she’s sure Ozorne will have moved onto other things. Then she lets the bracelet fall into her hand. On its own, it isn't very strong, but it might be enough for her to pull something off. Might is good enough right now.

And she thinks she has an idea.

 

When the guards open the door to feed her, she activates the anklet. It’s not a magical action; jewelry like this is designed to be used by anyone. Light flares (not what it’s meant to do, but it works for her) and she flings it at them. They flinch back--she’s still a black robe, even in a cell, and they know that--and she dives forward desperately.

Clears the threshold.

Her Gift comes rushing back, filling her up like fizzing light. Everything’s sharper, she feels warmer and stronger. She slams the door to the cell shut with a wave of her hand, so hard that it cracks the wall, and she runs.

Later, Arra won’t remember how she got out. It’s a blur of hallways that all look the same, and guards trying to stop her, and magefire splashing off her shields. None of it’s Ozorne’s, that she knows. Eventually, she has the presence of mind to veil herself and think of a place to hide. She limps into the Wave Walker’s temple and collapses in the back room--empty, now, not many in the palace worship the Walker. The adrenaline is wearing off and the months in the cell are showing themselves. She’s weak as a kitten.

And still in danger. Like all mages, Arra is careful what she does with parts of herself--she destroys all the hair that gets stuck in her hairbrush, and does the same to her fingernail clippings and the blood from her monthlies. But she bled on the dagger, and Ozorne still has it. She can track her, curse her, maybe even kill her, if the escape made her angry enough. Something has to be done.

There’s a way. She shouldn’t be trying now, not when she’s so exhausted, but if she waits until after she’s rested, she might wake up in chains. So Arra bites down on the heel of her hand, wincing, and drips the blood onto the floor. She reaches through it and burns away the other drops of it that aren’t in her. It <i>hurts</i>. But she’s safer than she was.

Gods, she’s got to get out of Carthak.

No, that’s too big. First she’s got to get out of the complex. Then she’s got to get onto a ship. Then she’s got to get somewhere friendly. Tyra, maybe. Scanra. Or Tortall.

Later. Sleep now.

She’s barely put her head down before the exhaustion swallows her up.

 

In the end, getting out of the city isn’t as hard as getting out of the cell. She makes a simulacrum, twins it, and sends both out of the city. Then she builds a seeming, based on the headwoman of her village. No one looks twice at a little old lady.

She doesn’t go to Varice. That could get her arrested as a collaborator, and she’d refuse to come, anyway. Carthak is her home now, and she has a good position at the palace--she won’t leave it, not for someone who’s been convicted of high treason. That’s just how Varice is, and Arra tries not to blame her.

She gets herself passage on a merchant vessel, and watches Carthak’s shore disappear as they sail out.

But even when they dock in Galla, she doesn’t feel safe.

Still. It’s an ocean away. If she runs a little further, and a little further still--she’ll be safe. In time.

First, though, she needs a new name. 


End file.
